Sleep Talking
by Sweet Avidya Jones
Summary: This is a story about Aang's death.


Aang was floating.

He thought he was dreaming but couldn't be. Everything felt too solid and real. An unfamiliar heaviness pressed against his chest and he realized he was having trouble breathing.

There was a bright, clean light around him and the pain seemed distant and unimportant. It enveloped him and blotted out his vision. He knew - in that way awareness seems to spring up from nowhere in dreams - that he was not alone. He could not see whoever it was. Before he could call out to them, an answer came to his unspoken question.

It was strange. It was a sudden thought springing up in his mind and a whisper in his ear and a voice echoing from a distance.

 _"I am called Raava. I am the Avatar Spirit. And it is time for us to part ways."_

There was regret and sadness. Though not his own, he felt it just as acutely.

 _"I know this has been difficult for you. I have not shared the life of someone so gentle in many years. You were very brave."_

He thought of Gyatso and his people and everyone he had lost. Familiar shame burned inside him and for the first time, he felt it truly shared.

He thought of his children.

 _"Your waterbending Master is gifted. Will she teach you again, if you ask?"_

Aang felt his awareness slipping away, fading into the light all around him, dissolving.

"Katara?" he replied. "I hope so."

He remembered light like this from before, from waking up in snow and ice. There was biting cold and a pair of blue eyes then. It felt familiar. He wasn't afraid.

x

Katara heard Aang's voice in the darkness. She heard him say her name, in a question.

"What is it, sweetie?" she murmured back. He did not respond. She fell asleep again.

When she woke she did not remember and he was still and silent.

x

It was an ordinary morning.

Tenzin lead morning meditation. He sat at the front of the room next to the shrine, the gong beside him. Opening chants were finished. They had only been sitting for a few minutes when the door at the back of the room slid open.

The girl acting as gatekeeper looked nervous as she approached, which was odd, since she wouldn't have interrupted without good reason. She stopped in front of him, her back to the rest of the Acolytes. They were trying to continue their practice, to feign disinterest, but there was always an energetic curiosity in the air when a session was interrupted. Some of them were sneaking furtive looks in their direction.

She folded her hands in front of herself, hesitated and wet her lips. He frowned and at last she bent to whisper to him. Her hand was cupped in front of her mouth, the only shred of privacy she could offer.

"It's your father, Master Tenzin."

The lack of formality confused him and his hands curled into fists on his thighs. She straightened and looked down at him, waiting.

It was not Avatar Aang requesting his presence, nor was Master Katara sending for him. This was a message from no one in particular. It felt ominous.

He had observed the Acolytes coming to his father with problems this way his entire life. With a cold wave of understanding, he realized she was standing before him now not because he had been asked for, but because there was no one else to go to.

"Thank you," he murmured to her, and it felt like someone else was speaking. She nodded and they exchanged a bow. Tenzin stood and stepped aside, waited for her to take his seat in the timekeeper's position. Once she'd settled in, they bowed to each other again. The protocol was comforting.

He moved through the room, toward the door still standing open. Tenzin paused on the threshold and turned to face the shrine, as his father had taught him. The tiny flames on the oil lamps flickered. Smoke curled up from the incense, toward the ceiling. He surveyed the quiet, tranquil space, full of Acolytes seated on cushions in neat rows. It was an ordinary morning.

He bowed and backed out of the room, sliding the door closed.

x

Bumi stood on deck at the bow of the Peony. The ship pitched and swayed beneath him as it traversed Yue Bay. He gripped the railing. It was almost comical for them to dock at the small pier on Air Temple Island, but it made more sense. Going to the port of Republic City itself would have forced him to take the ferry over.

He stepped down off of the gangway onto the boards, still in his uniform and with his bag slung across his back. It was midmorning and the breeze blowing off of the water was cool. There was no one to meet him. He scanned the area with a delaying sort of slowness. There was no one outside on this side of the island at all, and he wondered with a sinking dread where everyone was.

Bumi remembered when they first moved to Republic City. He pictured his parents as they had been in his childhood: young and passionate and idealistic, the momentum of their enthusiasm carrying them forward. Their kitchen had been the family's de facto meeting room. They would crowd around the table for dinner and Bumi would listen to them while they talked. Sokka about development projects and Toph about crime statistics. His parents used phrases like "creating the culture of the city". Things got even more complex and hard to understand when Zuko visited, and Suki, and the scope of the discussion extended to international politics.

When he would inevitably start to nod off, one of his parents would take him to his room - usually in weak, sleepy protest. They knew him well enough to know if they sent him to bed on his own he would simply linger in the hallway, eavesdropping. When he was finally left alone in the warm darkness, he would lay in bed, trying to stay awake. He could still call to mind the safety and security in those moments, the low hum of conversation and laughter from the adults gathered around the table reaching him from down the hall. It seemed there was no way anything bad could happen to him with them in shouting distance.

He could recall other nights, nights when his father would return home from trips he downplayed as 'Avatar business'. It was years before it ever occurred to Bumi that the reason his mother was up so late was that she was worrying about him, waiting for him. On the nights they were both gone, he was the one lying awake, waiting, listening for the sound of their return. They would slide open his bedroom door to check on him, and he would pretend he was asleep.

He entered the house. Around this time of day, he would have expected the place to smell like his mother's cooking. With Kya visiting, there should have been laughter coming from somewhere. His footsteps were loud in the otherwise quiet hall.

He could hear low voices as he approached the kitchen. They were unmistakably those of his siblings, so he was not surprised to find them sitting at the table together, holding cups of tea. They stood when he entered the room. He was about to ask the question he knew none of them wanted spoken aloud when Kya stopped him, closing the distance between them and pulling him into a hug. Her embrace was tight and he didn't want any of this to be acknowledged out loud, suddenly. He felt the inevitability of what he had been trying to deny heavy in his chest. Kya perched her chin on his shoulder.

"He's gone, Bumi," she murmured to him.

The words should have hit him harder. It should have hurt but didn't. Instead he heard the tremor in Kya's voice, saw the dark circles beneath Tenzin's eyes. All he felt was the familiar numbness that came with pretending, the suffocating falseness of setting his emotions aside. He'd learned it as the eldest, honed it in the United Forces. He swallowed and released his sister, nodded slowly.

"Okay," he murmured, more to himself than his siblings. Unable to stop the military clockwork of his mind, he accepted this information and moved onto the next issue of importance. "Where's Mom?"

"With him," Tenzin said, gesturing down the hall.

Bumi nodded again. He didn't say anything further, just left the kitchen in silence, moved toward their parents' room.

The house felt small. But then, it always felt small to him compared to the Southern Air Temple, where they'd lived before Kya was born.

His memories of those days were some of his fondest. His father taught him how to use a glider there and he was never afraid of falling. There were always arms to catch him, to seize him around the waist if he turned the wrong way against a current - which he did, sometimes. He would plummet, his heart leaping into his throat during the seconds of freefall. It was abrupt when he was snatched out of the air, rescued from otherwise certain death. And it was hard to take the risk seriously with laughter in his ear. He could not help but return it, pushed out of him on the crest of surging adrenaline as he scrambled onto his father's back.

"Let's not tell your mother about that one," he would would shout to him, against the wind buffeting his ears, and Bumi would nod and bury his face in his shoulder, clinging to him.

He used his glider to flirt with girls, in Republic City, before he joined the United Forces. Kya did, too, though she was not as overt about it. They used them to sneak out of the house at night - less often, since Bumi suspected they were not actually getting away with it. Their father never said anything, but he had never been young the way they were young, so there was a certain amount of misbehavior he permitted.

At sixteen, a month before his ship date, Bumi leapt out a window and snuck into his girlfriend's bedroom. It was the first time he had sex with someone he cared about. He wanted her to wait for him, because he didn't understand then what it was to wait for someone, what the distance meant. They broke up two weeks after he left. She sent him a letter he kept for a year, until the folds in the paper were nearly worn through.

Bumi stood outside his parents' room. The door was closed and there was silence on the other side.

The United Forces had not told him his father was dead, but they didn't need to. They would not have gone to all of the trouble of returning him to Republic City otherwise. He was dead or dying and Bumi could only hope it was the latter. He could never have imagined a reality in which he had to hope his father was dying, but here it was. He had to hope it, hold onto the possibility that he would make it home in time to say goodbye.

It was so trivial, but it seemed important to tell him that he still kept his glider beneath his bunk in the berthing, just in case. He was not using it to impress people anymore. It was there for emergencies, as a contingency plan. And it was a reminder, of his family and his father's people, and everyone he had sworn to protect.

Bumi stared at the closed door in front of him and swallowed down the tears stinging his throat. He did not make it home in time. He couldn't have. It was better this way, he told himself. His father did not have to see them weeping and afraid. It was peaceful and humble, the way he thought his father would have wanted to die, given a choice.

All of this was little comfort. He slid the door open.

His mother lay in bed. Her eyes were closed and he wondered if she was asleep. She was close to his father but not touching him. She pulled him from the ice. She saved him. It made sense that she was with him in the end.

His father could not have been mistaken as sleeping. His jaw was too slack. He was too pale. Bumi did not want to look at him. He did not want to remember him like this.

"Mom?" he whispered.

She was not asleep at all.

x

There were flowers on the table.

Tenzin found Kya and Bumi in the sitting room, looking drawn and tired. Neither of them were early risers naturally, though the United Forces had done their best to twist Bumi into one out of habit and necessity. It was just before dawn. Tenzin was not sure where the flowers had come from, though he suspected Kya picked them. She liked to take walks outside at night. They had not been there when he went to bed the night before. Bumi stood at the window, looking out toward the horizon.

Ordinarily they would be beginning morning meditation soon. His father would have joined them at some point, in the shrine room. He had just lead morning practice a few days ago. Again, Tenzin's sorrow asserted itself, this time in denial - he seemed fine a few days ago! - and he took a deep breath, doing his best to hold his pain, moving forward despite it.

"How are you two doing?" he asked.

Kya glanced at Bumi but he didn't respond. At last, she broke the silence.

"The Acolytes told me there were reporters here yesterday," she muttered.

Tenzin was more surprised by the disgust in her voice than the information she was delivering. They were used to reporters, they'd been around their whole lives.

"There are always reporters," he reminded her, sounding weary. Kya scoffed and set her tea down, gestured to the door.

"You'd think they would show a little respect today, at least."

" _Why_ would you think that?" Tenzin shot back, "When have they _ever_?"

Kya's eyes widened a little in surprise before narrowing down into a scowl. She glared at him, folding her arms across her chest. In the same instant she opened her mouth to reply, he cut her off.

"This is their last chance to give the public a window into Dad's life. Of course they're here. I've already had to turn down requests from them to photograph his body." Kya paled and Tenzin's heart sank. He hadn't intended to tell her this and instantly regretted doing it. He softened and went on, "Why are you letting this upset you? Why would you expect people to behave any differently now than they usually do?"

She sighed, staring back at him.

"I don't know, Tenzin," she replied, her voice quiet.

There was a knock at the front door, sharp and firm, and Bumi went to open it. He stepped aside to let Lin into the house. It had been nearly a week since Tenzin had seen her and he crossed the room, wanting the comforting familiarity of her arms around him. They leaned into each other for a moment. Her mouth was a tight line when he pulled away and he knew the only thing holding her together was the fact that she was in uniform. She took a deep breath through her nose.

"We've cleared the island," she said, "And my men are posted along the path to the - " her voice caught and she cleared her throat, "Just in case," she went on.

"Thank you, Lin," Tenzin said. She nodded and glanced past him, down the hall. He gestured in the direction her gaze had traveled and asked, "Do you…do you want to see him?"

Lin's brow furrowed and she sighed. As if in answer she asked, "Has the Chief been by?"

He shook his head. "She might not have heard," he offered, though he didn't think this was remotely possible. Lin obviously didn't, either.

"The whole city's heard," she muttered, frowning.

None of them spoke for a moment and Tenzin turned his gaze toward Kya. She gave a sad smile of encouragement. When he glanced in Bumi's direction, his brother sighed. He seemed unsure what to do with his hands and ran his fingers through his hair. Eyes downcast, he let his hand rest on the back of his neck. It was a posture that reminded Tenzin so much of their father that he had to look away. He turned back to Lin.

"Would you - " he hesitated, " - would you help us carry him?"

Lin balked, "Oh, I - " she wrapped her arms around herself, hesitating, "I couldn't."

Kya stood and joined them, taking her hands and pulling her further into the room.

"Please, Lin," she begged, "You're one of his kids, too."

Lin's cheeks reddened and Tenzin knew she was fighting back tears, but she acquiesced, nodding. She was about to say something else when there were footsteps on the porch.

In the darkness of the morning, Chen stood on the threshold. He was even older than their father and had been one of his attendants since before Tenzin was born. He was stooped and wizened but this morning he stood with his back straighter than Tenzin had seen it in years. It was as if he wanted to demonstrate good posture, one last time, for his teacher. His eyes were red and puffy but he was calm.

"We're ready, Tenzin," he said gently, "Whenever you are. Please take as much time as you need."

This was the moment the all knew was coming, but Tenzin still felt unprepared. He searched desperately for that inner space of quiet nothingness, which he usually found calming. Instead, he just felt hollow. It was disturbing and he held his breath as he stood there, unmoored and lost. Ordinarily, this was something he would have asked his father about and he swallowed past the lump rising in his throat.

"Thank you," he managed.

Chen nodded, his rheumy eyes shining with tears. He addressed Kya, "Please take as much time as you need," he repeated, and she nodded. Her chin trembled, as if the old man's earnestness had worn away the last bit of her self control.

He turned to walk away and Tenzin looked past him, to the Acolytes gathered in front of the house. They'd built the funeral pyre on the other side of the island and were making their final preparations in respectful quiet. Tenzin felt his throat tighten with emotion when he realized they were still observing morning silence, that Chen had spoken to him only out of necessity.

They were readying torches to light the path and Chen bent one of them to life, the fire illuminating their upturned faces.

"I'll go tell Mom," he said.

x

Katara did not want to sleep.

For more than fifty years he'd been her companion, her friend. He was part of the bedrock of her life. She woke up in the morning and the first thing she registered was that Aang was lying next to her. Or he was not, because he had already gotten up, or was traveling somewhere without her. Before she did anything else, she would roll over to look at him, to touch his arm, feel his presence. Or not. If he was not there she would listen for him moving around the house.

Of course, now that they were older they woke up slowly together, more often than not. He went to morning meditation late sometimes. Little else had changed.

Now he would never be there again. She sat vigil over his body for three days. She slept in short intervals and each time she woke, it was like it was happening all over again. Aang was dead. Every day from now on would begin with that thought, she knew. His side of the bed would be empty. She could already feel that emptiness inside herself. She sat beside him on the bed, stroked the back of his hand with her fingertips.

"Mom," Tenzin said from the doorway, his voice just above a whisper. "It's time."

Something inside her crumbled. Katara shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut in denial. When she opened them again and looked down at him, a little gasp slipped out of her. She covered her mouth, catching a sob behind her hand.

"Oh, no." She bent to kiss to the tip of his arrow, then pressed her forehead to his, cupping his face. "No, no, no," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I'm not ready." She sat back to look down at him, her tears falling onto his skin. His tattoos had grown paler with age, the edges of his arrows fuzzier and less defined.

Katara remarked on it once, a little teasing, and though he smiled, it was wistful.

"They're fading, just like the rest of me," he murmured.

"Aang," she admonished in a whisper, frowning.

He shook his head and patted her hand.

"Everything goes, Katara," he said. His words could have been ominous. Instead, he seemed reassured by them. She knew without him telling her that it was a reminder of all the things he had been taught since childhood. The things he was trying to teach others, in the hope that everything his people believed would not be lost. He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes.

"Everything goes."

Katara could see what was going to happen next so clearly it was like someone had already told it to her. She would leave Air Temple Island, leave Republic City. She would go home, to the Southern Water Tribe, and Kya would go with her. Bumi would go back to the Fire Nation, where he was stationed.

Tenzin would be alone.

More than that. He would be leading the Acolytes. He had already basically been fulfilling the duties of a senior teacher for years but now it would be actual fact. He would be the one they turned to with questions, with their frustrations. He would bear the burden of ensuring the culture of the Air Nomads lived on. Aang had done his best, but he was the last person who remembered what it was to be an Air Nomad. It could only ever be abstract to anyone else.

Now, in the pallor of death, his tattoos appeared brighter than they had in years, and Katara was reminded strongly of their youth. She remembered tracing the lines on his arms and legs in bed. She remembered how strong he had been, and how tender.

She looked up at her son. His eyes were bright and she knew he was not ready, either. There was a crescendo in her grief, the pain expanding in her chest. Tenzin was the last airbender. It was only now that he could truly understand his father, and he was gone.

He sat beside her on the bed.

It seemed she should say something - something vital, the right thing. She knew this was her only chance to say whatever it was. She put her arms around him and wept into his shoulder.

The moment passed. She let it.


End file.
